


says she don't do drugs but she does the pill

by girljustdied



Category: My So-Called Life
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: they have sex!  post-series.





	says she don't do drugs but she does the pill

**Author's Note:**

> prompts were "bananas," "basement," "bra," "munchies," "slut."

Rayanne Graff isn’t fooling anyone. Hiding behind the base of the biggest tree in his front yard, just like, obviously spying on Angela Chase’s house. He can see her from up in the branches of said tree. Obviously, he’s not snooping or anything himself. It’s not his fault that Angela happens to live across the street.

And it is totally not his fault that Rayanne happened to choose his tree trunk or whatever.

“You’re not like, stalking Angela Chase, are you?” he calls down at her only to pretty much immediately regret that decision. When she spots him easily with eyes narrowed, he blurts out with a pretty even amount of both accusation and fear, “God, you are!”

“Oh, please, Krakow!” She looks away to start pawing through her bag, “Just do a girl a favor and don’t mention you saw me here.”

That’s not really a problem, seeing as pretty much the only time he even sees Angela lately is when she’s walking from her front door to Jordan Catalano’s car—especially now that school is out for the summer. “Look, I’m not going to like, lie for you, Rayanne.”

“Who said anything about lying?” she asks as if she actually thinks he’s the one who’s too stupid to function. “Like I said, just don’t mention it.”

Which is just like, typical.

“Hey, you got anything to eat in your humble abode?” When he pretends to ignore her, she just keeps pushing, “Earth to Krakow. Food, munchies, grub, cheese log, Chinese takeout, green peppers, pancake mix—”

“Uh, yeah, obviously. Obviously we have food. It is a home where like, people live, so.”

“Well,” she licks her lips and touches the base of the tree, craning her head up to look at him, “do I have to go find a fireman to help you down or what?”

This is how he ends up on the couch in his basement with Rayanne Graff and a bowl of assorted fruit, his mother yelling down at him, “Your sexual urges are completely natural, Brian! Don’t repress them!”

And his father, “Please do us the consideration of using some sort of prophylactic!”

“Your parents are a trip—jeeze, Krakow, you are like—like—fire truck red,” Rayanne cackles before lifting her eyebrows with disapproval at the abundance of healthy snack options—Brian’s parents don’t allow junk food in the house. Offhandedly, like it’s nothing, “You know, I’d totally blow someone for a Twinkie right now. Even you.”

Brian almost chokes on the apple he hadn’t even realized he’d started eating. “What?”

“You heard me.” She lifts a banana from the bowl instructively, peels it deliberately, then wraps her lips around the fruit and sucks an impossibly long bite into her mouth before letting all it slide back out, her tongue poking out to linger on the tip.

Oh god, oh great, now his khakis are once again uncomfortably tight from the usual mixture of girl and abject terror—sometimes he could just _kill_ Rayanne—

“Hmm, I can’t even remember the last time I ate a banana,” she takes an actual bite, which somehow only makes his erection more pronounced. Her lipstick had left little streaks of dark red up the whole, well, shaft, and it is destroying him. “Pretty good.”

It’s not like he has anything resembling a crush on this her. Multiple dreams about Rayanne letting him shave her legs aside, Brian was pretty sure that she was borderline sociopathic or something, so—

“So, Bri,” she takes another bite of banana before dropping it back in the bowl to probably like, contaminate the rest of the fruit. “You still stuck on Angel-cakes or what?”

“No,” he denies weakly. “Not that it’s any of your business. Frankly, if she still thinks Jordan Catalano is a catch—did you know that I had to tutor him on like, how to add and subtract fractions with different denominators for over a month before he even approached an understanding of the concept? I mean, that is just—we learned that in _middle school_. You know?”

Cheekily, “What the hell’s a denominator?”

He’s pretty sure she’s joking. Pretty sure.

After a couple moments of sitting there awkwardly, not really sure what he’s supposed to say, Brian realizes that he should probably return the question. About Angela. “So are you—”

“So, you wanna fool around some?” she blurts out at the exact same time, shifting forward so that she’s pretty much on her hands and knees facing him on the couch.

“What?!” he’s not proud of how his voice cracks. “What would even make you think—”

“Oh, come on,” she nods towards the tent in his pants. “I don’t think that’s a banana in your freshly pressed khakis, is it?” And then she like, actually reaches for his crotch. Like, that is an actual thing that is happening, “Let’s check and see!”

He scrambles back to his end of the couch. “That—that is like a totally involuntary bodily response, god. Sometimes I get an erection when I’m just washing the dishes or—”

Rayanne grins, “Sounds kinky.”

“Look, I don’t—I hardly even _like_ you,” is mostly the truth.

“So? You think I’m in love with all the people I sleep with?”

“No,” and the thought is sort of sobering, if he’s going to be honest. “But I’m not a,” his voice trails off.

“A what?” she sits back a bit more on her heels. “A slut?”

Brain can’t say that he’s exactly proud of his panicked response. Even if it’s true:

“Yeah. A slut.”

Against all reason, hearing Brian say that word aloud seems to make Rayanne turn even more predatory. He feels like a deer in headlights as she pushes forward again and crawls across the couch to maneuver into a straddle over his traitorously eager lap.

“You know what I think, Brian?” she puts on this weird façade, where she’s suddenly like, playing at being demure, arms crossed delicately over her chest.

While she’s still wriggling on top of his now almost painfully hard dick.

Unsure about whether or not he wants to gain access to Rayanne’s twisted brain, but totally positive that her lip-gloss smells like Dr. Pepper and the taut strength of her inner thighs clenched around him is surprisingly sexy and that yeah, fine, so he’s thought about doing this with Rayanne from time to time—he’s not like, a _robot_ —Brian leans up and presses his lips to hers experimentally. It’s not exactly chaste, both of their mouths parted and sliding slightly against each other, but it is quick.

Rayanne sort of squeaks, like maybe he’s actually managed to make her uncomfortable for once, surprise her. “Wow, taking initiative for once in your life, Krakow?”

And he wants to say something sort of mean about how he doesn’t care about her or what she thinks or whatever, so the situation’s totally different. Doesn’t have the same pressures. Or whatever.

But right now mostly he wants to stick his tongue in her mouth and see what happens. So.

Rayanne lunges forward before he can like she’s trying to prove something, hands on both sides of his face as she crushes her body against his, her kisses bruising and teeth skidding against his bottom lip before she twists her tongue in to toy with his.

“You gonna touch me or what?” she laughs when they come up for air before moving her mouth wetly down the line of his jaw.

He’d been keeping his hands sort of awkwardly down at his sides, just almost touching the skin of her thighs where her cut-offs end, so he finally just presses his palms down in response, fingers pushing higher to dig up under the jean fabric a little.

She yanks up the bottom edge of his sweater and touches his stomach with surprisingly warm hands, fingertips sloping up to explore his chest.

“Huh,” she exhales, “what’ve you been hiding under there, Krakow?”

He wants to brag about his exercise regimen or whatever, or at least say something about how a guy didn’t need to be a jock asshole to be physically fit, but all that comes out is a little groan when her thumb brushes his left nipple. It sorta tickles, but like, in a weird, good way. Also in a way that directs even more blood down south—as if that’s even possible.

Rayanne grins and hikes his sweater all the way up to his armpits before bending her body to lick the same nipple teasingly. He can’t see her face underneath the fabric of his shirt, so after a minute he takes in a deep breath and just tugs it off over his head. Watches her mess of dirty blonde hair bob as she continues to trail her tongue down the line of his stomach, and gets so fixated on that image that when her hand reaches between them to palm the line of his dick, Brian practically jumps out of his skin.

“Oh!”

“Scared?” And she’s totally just like, aching for him to say that he wants to stop, he can tell. There’s this merciless little glint in her eye.

“No, just—” he sputters, “you’re a little overdressed in comparison now, aren’t you?”

“Well, do something about it, Brain,” she uses Jordan Catalano’s name for him with a knowing smirk.

Brian’s hands are sort of shaking, but he finally reaches out and lifts her loose flannel shirt up over her head—only to be greeted with another dark t-shirt underneath. Huffing out a breath in frustration, he yanks that one off a bit roughly. “There.”

“Happy?” her gaze narrowed just like when she was looking up at him through the branches of his tree earlier.

Well, there’s a girl in front of him with just a bra between him and her breasts, so. All three-dimensional and yeah, petrifying, but still. Rayanne’s bra is bright blue, her chest a little bigger than he’d thought, sort of straining up against the fabric as she breathes a little unevenly. He’d never approached going this far with someone before, and she didn’t even look close to stopping, arms bending back behind her to—oh!

She dangles the now useless bra in front of his face playfully before dropping it to the ground beside the couch, “Ever seen a girl’s tits before?”

“Yeah,” he blurts out.

“In person?” she’s skeptical. And then, “Oh, for the love of—” she reaches out, grabs both of his hands and brings them up to each breast. “There.”

He literally has no idea what to do. Literally. “Uh, what am I supposed to do?” he asks. Immediately regrets it—god, he feels like such an _idiot_. He hates that Rayanne always seems to end up making him feel that way. She barely had a 2.0 GPA, frankly, so really it was just ridiculous—

“I like it when they twist my nipples between their thumb and pointer finger,” she moves her hands over his to position them.

He does as he’s told until he can feel her nipples pebble and strain under his touch. Huh. Steeling himself, he leans down towards his hands on her, wanting to suck a nipple into his mouth like she had with him. Just returning the favor or whatever. Just experimenting. Her nipples are rosy and sort of small, and she makes this sound when he wets it with his tongue that sort of drives him crazy. She puts her hands in his hair and grinds her pelvis down against his as he switches to her other breast.

Horrified that he’s close to orgasming prematurely in his pants, he pulls back up and away. Her hands drop from his hair to in between them and immediately start fiddling with his belt buckle.

“Jeeze, who even wears belts anymore?” she teases. He doesn’t think she’s even trying to be mean this time, but it still makes him want to just stop this whole sordid thing, heart thudding too quickly in his chest— “You want me to suck you off?”

Nevermind.

He helps her get the belt off with eager hands, and before he knows it she’s grasping his dick in one hand while kneeling between his legs, mouth opening wide and sliding down around him. It’s like nothing—nothing, seriously—he’s ever felt before. And when she hollows her cheeks out and really sucks as she bobs her head slowly up and down, he closes his eyes and tries to think of every awful thing on the planet to keep from coming in her mouth too quickly.

His parents. Guns. War in the Middle East. Sweat. Wool against his bare skin. Showers after gym class. _The Catcher in the Rye_. Jordan Catalano’s stupid, red car. Angela—

“You have any condoms?” Rayanne’s voice suddenly ringing out and practically hitting him upside the head.

“What?” he can barely even comprehend what she’s saying. “You want—you want to have sex right now? It’s like two in the afternoon—”

“Skyrockets in flight,” she sing songs before starting to hum the rest of the chorus of that stupid afternoon delight song right against his dick.

“No, no, I don’t have any condoms, Jesus,” he shifts away from her mouth as much as he can, almost ready to explode. “I wasn’t exactly planning this. Especially not with you.”

“Hold on,” unfazed by his vague insult, she crawls over to the other end of the couch where her bag is and leans over that arm of it on her stomach, ass in the air and legs flailing a little bit. “You’re a virgin, so it’ll help make sure you don’t blow your load as fast.”

“Who says I’m a virgin?”

It sounds completely ridiculous even to his own ears; Rayanne guffaws, still searching noisily through her bag. She finally pops back up with a strip of five—five!—condoms in one had.

“Ta da!”

It felt sort of girly to admit to himself, but he’d always imagined losing his virginity with someone he loved. Preferably Angela, but he was willing to believe that there were more fish in the sea or whatever. There pretty much had to be. But Rayanne was surprisingly hard to deny, her face totally primed for rejection again—but not hoping for it like before. More like expecting it. Like maybe she’d even be upset if they stopped now.

Plus there’s a small trail of spit on her chin from, well, you know. And he’d really like to see the full stretch of her legs without her shorts more than he’d like to admit. And god, he’s almost seventeen years old. He’d be even more of a total loser than he already was if he waited much longer—not that he like, cared about what anyone thought of him. And not that anyone would ever, ever, ever find out about this.

But he’d know. And Rayanne’d know.

This is how he ends up on the couch in his basement about to lose his virginity to a girl he’s still pretty confident is like a total lunatic.

“Just like in health class,” he mutters to himself as he carefully rolls on a condom.

“No,” she snickers a little as she wriggles out of both her shorts and her underwear at the same time. She has a tattoo on her hip of a like, cartoon sun. Also she’s naked. So. “Absolutely nothing like health class!”

She’s right. Rayanne’s right. Not like health class. At all.

She hops back into a straddle over his lap—

“Shouldn’t we—” he wants to press her down onto her back.

“Missionary with Brian Krakow,” she speaks too properly, like she’s on _Sixty Minutes_ or something, reaching between them and guiding his dick towards her center. “No thanks.”

She sinks down, enveloping him completely, warm and tight—and almost immediately pulls back up until just the tip of his dick is inside of her. His hips jerk up instinctively to try and thrust back inside fully.

“Say you want me,” her hands keeping his hips down.

“I want you.” Seriously. Like for a second, there are no other words in the English language. Just, “I want you.”

And then there are pretty much zero. Just Rayanne bouncing up and down with total abandon on his lap, arms loosely looped around his neck.

For a moment, she presses her forehead to his, and it’s almost sort of tender. So, of course he has to screw it up by coming inside of her quite possibly under the sixty second mark. Of course.

“Sorry,” Brian croaks, the word unfamiliar in his mouth—especially when it came to her. “Sorry.”

She slows to a stop at the feeling of him softening inside of her. Lifting herself off him and onto the couch, she props her back up against the opposite arm with her legs splayed wide. “Don’t worry about it, Minute Man.”

And then she just starts touching herself, two fingers pumping up inside of her while she rubs at what he assumes is her clitoris with the other hand.

“Uh, do you want me to like, help?” He wonders what she’d taste like. When she just keeps masturbating and doesn’t even bother to look at him, he prods, “Rayanne—”

“God, no.”

So he carefully rolls the condom off to like, have something to do, but then just ends up sitting there with it hanging from his fingertips when he can’t find the wrapper it came in—and as Rayanne’s moans and breasts heaving as she fingers herself get sort of distracting. She winks at him when she catches him staring, her noises becoming louder, more of a show. She comes with a little shout, her legs squeezing shut around her arms and toes curling into the couch material.

Well, he’s painfully erect again. Just great.

“Ah, youth,” Rayanne snarks, eyes on his genitalia giving him away.

Figures he should just ask, you know, just in case, “You want—would you want to have sex again like right now?”

She picks up her t-shirt from the floor and wipes her hands on it, this little, secret smile twisting on her lips and making him feel incredibly nervous. “Careful, Krakow. Sex twice in the middle of the afternoon with your true love’s whatever I am—who you freely admit to hating,” she tosses the dampened fabric into his lap. “Someone might call you a total horny slut.”

“I don’t hate you.” Maybe he likes her, even. Now it’s sort of hard to tell. “I, uh—”

“Aw, don’t burst a blood vessel.” Her eyes get a little mean, “Slut.”

“Look, I’m sorry I called you that, okay?”

“Hey, I’m happy with who I am,” she shrugs it off in that way where it’s hard to tell where her words end and whatever feelings a psychopath possess might begin. “Can you say the same, Brain?”

“I—”

“Oh, just shut up and fuck me.”

He lunges between her legs immediately.

Her breath hot against his mouth, “Such a slut. You’re not fooling anyone, Krakow.”


End file.
